


take to the skies

by Kazura



Category: Disgaea (Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Food, Picnics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 03:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15720687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazura/pseuds/Kazura
Summary: To no one's surprise, bringing Archangel Flonne food as an excuse to see her becomes something of a habit for the Supreme Overlord, Laharl the Terrible. It's fine. Some are grateful. Flonne herself is, most of all.





	take to the skies

The kids know who he is by now.

Anyone who matters in Celestia do, too, of course, but they know him as an Overlord—the late King Krichevskoy’s heir, the older brother of the Demon Angel. Understandable titles, but he’d really rather be known as Laharl the Terrible. Lamington, that old and cheeky Seraph, knows him better, and even invites him for tea whenever Laharl makes his intentions to visit known. Maybe that guy Virunga knows him, too, if only a little bit better than the other Archangels, but Laharl doesn’t really care much about him.

But the kids, the angel trainees under Flonne’s direct tutelage, don’t really think about titles or reputations. They just know him to be the demon who drops by and brings their Lady Flonne food every now and then.

It’s such an obvious solution. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t thought about it before. Aside from maybe letting Etna’s disapproval over him leaving his own work behind “to play” get to him. Celestia forbid _she’d_ ever stay behind whenever he felt like visiting Flonne, leaving no one else but Sicily as the voice of command in the Castle. That’s probably bad, yeah, but Sicily can handle herself well enough now. She has Barbara and Lanzarote with her, too. He can afford a few trips once in a while.

Etna’s chosen to stick around in the Netherworld this time though, because Xenolith finally, _finally_ came home from his then seemingly endless wandering the night before, and his track record at forgetting to eat is even worse than Flonne’s, so Laharl and Etna elected to pick their own battles that day. She did send a cup of pudding for Flonne, which speaks volumes about how much she wanted to be there, too.

And so there Laharl stands, in the middle of the meadow where Flonne likes to conduct her classes, surrounded by tiny angel trainees as he holds a large picnic basket high above his head. There are five of them. Five tiny little balls of energy that apparently don’t fear the guy who beat up their Seraph once.

“What did you bring today, Mister?”

“That’s Overlord Laharl to you.”

“Did you bring sandwiches again?”

“Yeah.”

“I want pudding!”

“The pudding’s for Flonne,” he says dryly. “Maybe next time. You can all have cake.” Sicily sent a red velvet cake this time around. Laharl’s had it before. It’s good. The kids ought to love it. Maybe they’d leave him and Flonne’s pudding alone after they’ve smeared their own faces with cream cheese.

A poorly muffled laugh reaches his ears, and he glances at the only full-fledged angel in the meadow. Artina. Laharl’s met her often enough that he deemed it necessary to remember her name. Always in the presence of Flonne or the kids, this one, whenever Laharl sees her in Celestia. Behind her trails her long, pink hair, dotted with small, white flowers that the kids probably stuck in there earlier that day, and she happily wears them as if they were medals.

He sees her in Hades, too, whenever he feels like stretching his legs and bugging Emizel. She rarely has flowers in her hair then, but she often looks like she’s won the lottery when she’s there anyway. Unlike Flonne, she has more time in her hands, and she chooses to spend most of her spare moments in a Netherworld prison. Laharl never really asked her what her deal is, but Flonne and Emizel seem to trust her enough. Maybe she’s some kind of glorified babysitter.

“It’s always nice to see you, Overlord Laharl,” Artina says, dropping her hand and showing Laharl a genuine smile. Laharl knows by now, when he sees the corners of her bright blue eyes crinkling. “Lady Flonne should be arriving soon. I’m afraid the meeting earlier dragged on for quite a while. The rest of her schedule has been pushed back for about half an hour because of it.”

Laharl’s learned not to ask what the meetings are about. Despite Lamington’s and Flonne’s efforts, many angels still remain skeptical about letting demons know too much about Celestia. As an Overlord, Laharl can’t really blame them. Just as long as they don’t plan to attack his Netherworld or something, he should probably just let it go.

What he can’t let go is the fact that a meeting’s dragged on. Angels are known for being punctual. Despite spending the first few minutes of every day bleary-eyed and nearly bumping into walls, Flonne almost never fails to get up on time.

Laharl frowns. “That happen a lot?”

Artina’s smile becomes a tad crooked. Maybe she doesn’t like it, too. “It has lately, I’m afraid.” She glances at the picnic basket for a moment before meeting Laharl’s eyes again. “We still try to remind her to eat regardless, but there are times when she can’t be deterred.”

Laharl grumbles, “Yeah, I know. That’s why you gotta be stubborn with her.”

Artina doesn’t bother hiding her sadness now, even if she does continue smiling. “She’s one of our Archangels,” she says softly, as if that explains everything.

He gets it anyway. “Yeah, leave her to me.” If they couldn’t smack some sense into her because of her position, then he’ll gladly cross worlds to shove a bagel into her mouth himself. He has vitamins from their Netherworld Nurse, Florence, too. Maybe he could even get his hands on Flonne’s phone, set alarms for when she has to take them.

“We are forever grateful for your concern for our Lady,” Artina says, hands clasped over her chest as she bows deeply.

What Laharl wouldn’t give to have a vassal as respectful to his authority as this one.

He makes a face. Barbara’s different, of course.

“Mr. Uberlord—”

“ _Over_ lord.”

“Mr. Overlord, are you gonna leave today, too?” What’s this one’s name again? She always asks the same question. Charlotte. Yeah, Charlotte, with hair the same color as Flonne’s. She’s tugging on his pants with her tiny, tiny hands and looking up at him with wide green eyes.

He can’t help breathing out a sigh. “Yeah. I don’t live here, kid.” Maybe it’s just as well that his hands are full, even if his arms were starting to ache. He would’ve reached out an gave her small head an awkward pat otherwise, just to make her stop giving him those eyes. How mortifying.

“But you’re here a _lot_ ,” Charlotte whines, and he has half a mind to toss her into Artina’s waiting arms. “Why don’t you just move here? We have _maaaany_ houses. Or maybe you can live with Lady Flonne!”

This time, Artina covers her mouth a little too late, and the barrage of giggles that comes out from her sends Laharl’s jaw dropping open.

He was wrong. This one has cheek. She’s some unholy combination of Flonne and Etna.

“I-I’m sorry,” Artina tries to squeeze out in between wheezes.

“You’re not sorry at all,” Laharl hisses before reaching into his scarf and grabbing the picnic blanket he tucked in there before leaving for Celestia. Redirecting his magic, he has his scarf hold the basket for him. It’s easier to ball the blanket up with two hands, after all, before he punts it in the direction of Artina’s face. Bullseye. Maybe he could take up archery. Expand his repertoire a bit.

“Laharl!” he hears over Artina’s continued laughter, and Laharl whips his head around.

Finally flying towards them after what seemed like ages is Flonne. Contrary to what he’s been expecting—a bright, warm smile—a pout is all she has to give him. Huh. Well, whatever. He extends his hands in her direction anyway, and she still lands in his arms, all ruffles and feathers. He catches himself before he starts burying his nose into her soft, sweet-smelling hair.

“What did you do that for?” Flonne asks, glancing at Artina when Laharl raises an eyebrow.

Artina is still smiling wide as she spreads out the blanket with the help of the kids. She’s having too much fun.

“Really? First time you’ve seen me in a week, and that’s what you first ask me?” he says, raising an eyebrow. His hands are still on her hips. She hasn’t pulled away at least. That’s good, right?

She continues pouting, but there’s no way in Hades that he’ll tell her what little Charlotte said. Not when Artina and the kids are obviously eavesdropping, what with those shit-eating grins on their faces.

“I’m the one to blame, my Lady,” Artina volunteers. She’s already seated on one end of the blanket, her legs tucked under her while four of the kids vie for the spots next to her. “I’m sorry for being rude, Overlord Laharl. I didn’t mean to mock the notion of you—”

“Okay!” Laharl shouts over Artina’s voice, drowning whatever embarrassing thing she has to say. “It’s fine. Yeah, sure. Whatever. Apology accepted.”

Flonne tilts her head, a question probably on her lips, but not now. He can’t right now. It’s not that he thought Artina was mocking him anyway. But little Charlotte is brimming with curiosity. Curiosity that will cost Laharl his sanity, probably, especially when it takes every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from just whisking Flonne away and taking her home with him.

“Let’s just eat,” he says, finally letting go of Flonne as he turns around and has his scarf transfer the basket back into his hand. He keeps the other one free, open, but even as Flonne catches up to him, it remains empty.

The picnic, as always, is a rowdy affair. They may be angels, but kids are kids, and it takes a practiced combination of Laharl’s firm command, Artina’s unending patience, and Flonne’s soothing words to calm them all down once the contents of the basket have been revealed. Boxes of rice, meat, and vegetables are ever present, of course, plus a couple of sandwiches, all courtesy of Hanako and Sicily’s combined expertise. But the real prize is and will always be Sicily’s desserts. Laharl even has to raise the remains of the velvet cake above their heads again more than once to keep them from actually getting cake everywhere.

Glad to know he’s right, sure, but he could do with not having to deal with five energetic kids while he’s also trying to figure out if Flonne would be all right on her feet for the rest of the day or not.

He glances at Artina, who’s been exposed to him often enough by now, and gives her a nod. Artina answers with a nod of her own, and she coos to the little ones that she’ll help them practice their Wind spells again once they’re done eating if they spent the rest of their meal quietly. Her promise produces the intended effect. Soon enough, the kids have stuffed themselves full, and Artina leads them a good distance away from Flonne and Laharl. They’ve even put away their own utensils and cleaned up after themselves before chasing after their babysitter.

As if influenced by their overwhelming energy, Flonne beams. To Laharl’s relief, she’s cleaned her plate completely. Twice even. That’s a good sign.

Feeling a smile tug at his own lips, Laharl puts down his paper plate and scoots closer to Flonne. Just a little. “How you deal with them on a daily basis and still do your Archangel thing is beyond me.”

Flonne laughs. She turns to look at him. Upon closer inspection, there are bags under her eyes, but her eyes themselves are as bright as Celestia’s skies. He’s not going to admit it aloud, but he takes comfort in that, too. “They’re very sweet,” she says, as if their demeanor made up for the energy she probably needed to look after them.

He has misgivings about that “sweet” part, too.

Wrinkling his nose, he shakes his head.

“I don’t think being an Overlord is easy, too, but you still have time to come here, right?” Flonne says, her wide eyes blinking at him, as if to affect innocence.

He huffs. “Are you complaining?”

Flonne smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Gently, she reaches for his cheek and caresses it with a thumb. “Not at all,” she says softly. “But there are dark circles under your eyes. You haven’t been getting enough sleep?”

Grabbing her wrist, he pulls her hand down from his face. He cradles her fingers instead. “Those have always been there,” he says dryly. “If I slept any more than I already do, Etna’s gonna get on my case.”

Her free hand over her lips, Flonne giggles. “She would, won’t she? How has she been?”

“You saw her last week.”

Shoulders sagging, she pushes her lower lip out into a pout, and he has to look away before the urge to reach out and pinch her cheeks wins.

With an exaggerated sigh, he concedes. “Fine, fine,” he says. Rubbing small circles on the back of her hand, he gives her a brief account of what everyone—not just Etna—has been doing since Flonne last heard of them. At least, he planned it to be brief. He realizes far too late as he recounts Xenolith’s apparent foray into playing the violin that there are far too many who misses Flonne.

Artina and the trainees have moved on from practicing spells to playing tag in the far side of the meadow when he finishes.

Laharl’s not well-versed in reading the various kinds of smiles of the people around him, but Flonne is among the few he no longer holds at arm’s length, enough to know what the curve of her lips mean at sight.

She misses them, too. Of course, she does. She’s the sappiest of all of them. “I’m glad they’ve been doing all right.” She takes in a deep breath, then beams. “Give them my love?”

“You and Sicily keep saying that. I don’t even know what that means. What am I supposed to do? Hug them?” He makes a face at the thought. He’s gotten used to Sicily doing it, but he can’t even imagine himself doing anything other than patting her head. As for everyone else, well. Even that much is out of the question, definitely.

“You just tell them!” Flonne somehow manages to say between bursts of laughter.

“Fine,” he drawls. “Flonne gives you all her…l-love.” He can’t do it. He unconsciously reduced the last word into a whisper. He scratches the back of his head in irritation. “Right.”

Silence falls over them, and he finds it uncomfortable, so he glances at Flonne.

She has the softest, sappiest look on her face. To top it off, she says, “Thank you for visiting me again today, Laharl. I missed you the most.”

In an attempt to distract from his burning face, he huffs. “Of course, you did.” Even if it's only been a week. She always, always did. And she always, always said as much. He should have probably said he missed her, too, because he did. Of course, he did. Bringing her food is hardly an excuse, because there’s that, too, but he’d be lying if he said that seeing her face weren’t his primary motivation.

But his heart is already making a racket, and it’s taking every bit of what he has to keep himself from jumping away and making poor excuses. That was his thing centuries ago. It isn't supposed to be his thing now.

Flonne squeezes his hand though. And she keeps smiling. Baby steps, they’ve decided before.

So he likes to think that she has it—has _him_ —figured out anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Something short for today. Hardly birthday-themed, but Happy Birthday nonetheless, Your Majesty T^T7
> 
> For more ways to find me, [here's my Carrd](https://artwaltzed.carrd.co/).


End file.
